


Dust to Dust

by izloveshorses



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, One Shot, dmitry: I'm not in love with Anya, idk how to tag this ashdjkf, just exploring the man's thoughts for 9k, narrator: dmitry was indeed in love with anya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 18:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izloveshorses/pseuds/izloveshorses
Summary: “Even when I was mad at you,” Anya started, “I never doubted we would. Thank you, Dmitry.”He realized he’d been staring and the silence was too long. “Uh… Thank Vlad.”She smiled quietly, like she knew he couldn’t handle gratitude very well. He definitely wasn’t hiding his internal commotion at all, and thankfully Vlad called for them to come look before she could call him out on it, giving him an escape.But there was no running away from the fact that he’d fallen in love with her.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19





	Dust to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> hi I'm once again here with a one shot that grew too long where I just think about dmitry out loud <33

Dmitry’s plan was perfect.

He and Vlad were capable of forging travel papers. And, more importantly, he was good at lying. So he saved up his money from selling forged documents to desperate people, found himself a prop that looked somewhat imperial to be convincing, and their destination waited with open arms and a chest full of cash. Sure, there wasn’t anything easy about this, exactly, with the bolsheviks slamming borders closed. But the plan itself was flawless.

Except the girl.

He didn’t even have to go looking for her, she just showed up at their doorstep, like the wind blowing in the Siberian snow. She was the perfect blank slate to play the most pivotal part of the whole plan— just hungry and desperate to get out, no recollection of her family, nothing keeping her here. So they struck a deal: she would pose as the lost grand duchess, they would help her escape Russia. If only she weren’t so stubborn.

Two could play at that game. 

He did his best, playing up his charms and flatteries at first, but she was immune to all of it. Annoyed, even. So he quickly learned to bite first. After the hours of reviewing the Romanov family tree and spewing etiquette lessons grew too strenuous, tensions rose and something would set one of them off. He didn’t think he’d ever met someone who could argue as much as she did. Weirdly enough, it was strangely exhilarating figuring out which buttons to push when he was in a mood for a fight. She’d never back down, he’d give her credit for that.

Anyway. 

Dmitry arrived back at the old boarded up palace after a long day at the market. Anya was in the living room, reading the daily paper, lounging on his favorite loveseat next to the warm fire. He plopped down next to her to remove his boots and with a huff she rose.

He rolled his eyes as she found a spot on the adjacent, moldy chair, giving him a pointed glare. “What have I done to peeve you now, princess? Exist?”

“Yes, actually.” She straightened the newspaper she was reading like the crack of a whip. “Go jump into the canal.”

“Ah, you’re still made about that? That was weeks ago.”

“Still, it’s no way to talk to a possible-grand duchess.” 

“I don’t think grand duchesses sit like that.”

She snapped her paper shut and stood up. “What do you want?”

Now that she was standing again, arms crossed and eyes glimmering with a shadow of Old Russia, he swallowed. But he masked it quickly by rising to match her stance and tossing her a smirk. “I wanted your seat.”

“Is that all?” 

“For now.”

“Then leave me alone.”

“Fine.”

The sound of the front door opening silenced them enough to separate and coexist in semi-peace. Vlad found them seated at opposite ends of the fireplace and sighed. “Are you two going to bicker all evening, or are we actually going to accomplish anything? Please tell me now so I can prepare myself for a headache.”

“Well,” Dmitry started, hoping having the first word would establish his validity, _“I’ll_ behave.”

Anya shot him a glare.

“Good grief,” Vlad pinched his nose. “Let’s get this over with.”

They powered through the next lesson, arguing about as much as they normally did, and then parted ways after dinner. Curled up on his sofa he couldn’t fall asleep, despite the exhaustion after the long day. 

There was something unnerving about her eyes. Every time they met his he felt a shiver run up his spine— so impossibly blue against the dull gray of the Russian winter, piercing and cold and harsh and chilling. But sometimes they’d warm with a smile when she’d guess the name of an old courtier, or soften with a _thank you_ when he’d hand her a bowl of beans for dinner, or brighten with a laugh when Vlad spoke of his days in court, or glaze over with some incoherent muttering about remembering screams and dogs and guns, fixed on a distant point, unreachable. He never knew what to do with that. 

But, more troublingly, they were eyes that hurdled his charms and saw him for what he really was— a liar, a criminal, a nobody. Someone who shouldn’t have been as arrogant as he was. Every time she looked at him he could see it, the disgust in her expression mirrored back, the same hatred for himself he harbored in his own heart, buried underneath all the pride glowing in his skin. 

Maybe that was why he couldn’t stand her.

* * *

In spite of himself, Dmitry had a sliver of a protective streak he didn’t know existed. 

The closest he’d felt to this was when he found Vlad lined up in front of a firing squad. He hadn’t even known him then, he just saw someone about to be wrongfully killed in front of him and he couldn’t cope with that. 

Now, though, when they were surrounded by some drunks on the street, he couldn’t help but raise his arm in front of Anya as a symbolic shield, and when a fight inevitably broke out his vision turned red. It was deep and instinctual, out of his control. 

But she didn’t really need much of his protection in the end— whatever violence boiled his blood was tripled in hers, it seemed, and he was almost amused by it. So charmed that, when he slipped some words out about being on his own for so long and she asked for more, her eyes brightened with curiosity, he couldn’t resist. It was like she pulled the stories out of him, like she was the center of gravity for the past that constantly swirled around in his own head. Maybe his heart just didn’t want to carry that alone anymore. Maybe, for a minute, he wanted to be the person the world told him he could no longer be, and Anya, for once, was actually a little delighted in his presence. Her smile hit him in the chest— something about it was so eerily familiar, from something so far deep in his heart… 

So he showed her his city. All of it— the ugly alleyways where he was mugged, the slums with the happiest memories of his father, and the beautiful bridge overlooking the Neva, the sun sinking beneath the horizon. All of the bitter, twisted, wonderful memories in one city. All of the parts of himself. And she listened.

She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time. He was too much of a coward to hold her gaze any longer, so he shrugged it off, and when she expressed a little ounce of self doubt he swallowed. He’d never met someone so vulnerable— how did she do it? How did she make him feel just as vulnerable after only knowing him for a few months, after he’d carried his burdens on his heart for twenty years and insisted he’d continue to carry to his grave?

He sighed. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to give his music box to her or why he knew she’d like it, he hadn’t planned on ever showing it to her until Paris. Maybe it was his way of saying thank you for listening. For being a friend.

Her smile was worth it. She lit up with childlike joy, cradling the gift to her chest. “What’s this?”

“A music box.”

“It’s beautiful!”

“It’s broken.” He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed he gave her a useless toy. “I can’t get it open.”

But her brow furrowed with focus, and a couple clicks and a twist of a nob later the toy was open, a song playing clear as a bell. He masked his shock with an attempt to tease. “Hey, how’d you open that?” 

But she was gone. She had that look in her eyes again, glazed over, transfixed, haunted, unreachable. She started humming to the tune, but her hums soon turned into words of a lullaby, as if the little toy was pulling them out of her involuntarily. 

Then she was crying and he had no idea what to do. She seemed embarrassed when she remembered he was there, furiously wiping away stray tears and not meeting his eyes. Slowly he touched her hand holding the music box with his own to get her attention. And then she was looking at him again, as if asking, _begging_ him to give her an answer to a mystery so beyond his comprehension. She was the first to break the silence with an unrelated question that made him wince. “How soon do you think we can go?”

And she was stuffing her paycheck into his hand and he couldn’t stomach it. Why was it so impossible to lie to her? It would’ve been so _easy_ to accept the money and keep her in the dark, but he couldn’t. Not with her.

The transformation of her expression from easy familiarity to heartbreaking disappointment was the worst part. Until, “You were the only hope I had.”

The words were a punch to the gut. _No, I should never be your last hope!_ “There has to be someone else who can help you,” He tried handing her back the cash. “I’m sorry—”

She shoved his hand back into his chest. “I don’t want your money.”

“It’s _your_ money—”

“It’s _our_ money! I trusted you!”

“I said I was sorry!” What more did she want? Couldn’t she see her chance to get out without this orphaned street rat bossing her around?

“I didn’t trust you enough!”

He took a step back, startled by her confession, now echoing over the empty canal. 

After a beat she inhaled a deep breath and told him, much quieter, to hold out his hand, calling him stubborn for scoffing. He did as told, though, unsure of what this had to do with their predicament. Until he opened his eyes and saw she’d placed a diamond in his palm. 

The nurses had found it on her all those years ago, she explained. A gift from her past life. She’d been instructed to keep it hidden until she found someone she trusted. What made _him_ trustworthy?

“Is it enough?” she asked, her voice small. 

“Yes.” He blinked down at her, incredulous she’d even ask. “Wait, so…” he still couldn’t process it. “You’ve had it _all_ this time without telling me?”

“Yes.”

“Why!”

“It’s the only thing I have! Without it, I have nothing!”

God, he couldn’t believe this. “How do you know I won’t take it now and you’ll never see me again?”

“I don’t think you will!” she shot back without hesitation, stomping closer.

The declaration angered him. What did she know about him? Why was he so frustrated that she dared to call him a decent human being? “If you weren’t a girl, I’d—”

She squared his shoulders and clenched her jaw, preparing for a fight, and suddenly he wasn’t angry anymore. No, he was _delighted._ Instead of throwing a punch he scooped her up with a laugh and she yelped in surprise when he spun her around once. She was giggling when he set her back down to the earth, those blue eyes the closest to him they’d ever been, and he could’ve kissed her right there if Vlad hadn’t shown up.

They were nearly out.

* * *

Dmitry hated trains.

Okay. This was his first time riding one, but so far it was pretty lousy. Too loud, too crowded, too cramped. He was crammed on a bench against Anya, who seemed just as annoyed with their nearness as he was. Maybe not annoyed— _flustered_ was the closest word he could assign to this emotion. 

Dmitry thought about what the ruffians had called her. _Looks like he got himself a new girlfriend instead._ He imagined it for a minute— what it would actually be like to call Anya his girlfriend. She was pretty enough, and it seemed like she actually sort of understood him now, or at least tried to pretend they were friends. But he couldn’t picture or reconcile what he normally did with the girls he’d dated in the past, for some reason, with the girl he was now codependent upon for survival. He’d have to bend down pretty far to kiss her. That wasn’t the problem, though. Maybe he didn’t really know how romance actually worked.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He hadn’t realized he was staring, nor that she’d glanced up from her book. She wore a baffled bend of her brow, eyes burning, burning, burning. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Just lost in thought.”

She didn’t look convinced, but thankfully she refocused back on her book and didn’t push further, letting him release a breath without her piercing eyes seeing through his many lies. He readjusted so he was staring out the window, racking his brain trying to think of anything other than the unfathomable act of kissing Anya.

This was gonna be a long trip. 

Sensing conflict, Vlad sat forward and started reminiscing about his lovely Lily. “She gave me a watch studded with diamonds.”

Anya had closed her book, listening with a fond smile. “Did you love her?”

“Madly,” he said so assuredly that Dmitry raised his eyebrows in surprise. “But I loved the watch more.”

Dmitry barked a laugh. “What happened to it?”

“Gone with the old Russia.”

He nodded and relaxed more into his seat— as much as possible, anyway. But when he glanced down at Anya she was rolling her eyes. Disappointed but not surprised, it seemed. What was her problem? Loving things of value was more tangible than loving people. From his experience, people died or left or betrayed friends. At least a diamond watch could get him something to eat, or in their case, a ticket out of Russia. Love didn’t do that. And how did Vlad know he was in love so surely enough he could say it like that, plain as day? Dmitry couldn’t comprehend feeling that way about anyone, not since his father died. He crossed his arms and suddenly the story wasn’t so funny anymore. Why did Anya’s opinion of him matter, anyway? He’d never cared what anyone thought of him before. But for some reason the thought of her seeing him as heartless and cynical as he tried to be left a metallic taste in his mouth. 

God, he needed _something_ stimulating soon or he wouldn’t last much longer. 

He tried waving hello to a couple of girls sitting across from them, but their attention didn’t satisfy him as much as it would’ve maybe a month ago. Then he stared out the window, counting trees until numbers and blue eyes circled in his head. Then he gave up and closed his eyes in the hopes of squeezing in a nap before something went wrong. 

He was interrupted when he felt himself jerk forward, the train screeching to a halt. Uh oh. 

Before he had time to wonder what was going on the sound of boots marching into their compartment left no room for his imagination. Almost instinctively he draped his arm around Anya and she tucked herself closer into his side, holding the book up to her face, tensing with fear. He gave the Bolshevik a smile too cheeky for his own good. “Evening, officers.”

He felt a pinch in his arm. _Don’t provoke,_ it said. 

“Everything alright, gentlemen?” Vlad asked with a bounce in his voice.

“We’re looking for someone illegally leaving the country.”

“Didn’t have the right papers, eh?” They were so dead.

“He had the right papers, but the wrong name. Count Ipolitov.”

Dmitry was about to shrug and say something stupid when a gun went off.

He reflexively tightened his arm around Anya and she sobbed into his shoulder. Heart pounding, he looked up at Vlad, silently asking for help while his mind raced to try to piece together what they just witnessed. 

“I’ll go see what happened,” Vlad said, his voice tired and sad.

“We know what happened,” Dmitry snapped. Anya sobbed again and he didn’t know what to do.

“Calm her down,” Vlad said, making Dmitry panic. “Any tears will betray us.”

Dmitry was pretty sure Anya was beyond comforting at this point, but even if she wasn’t this much of a shaking mess he still wouldn’t be the person equipped to deal with this. Softly, afraid she was too fragile, he patted her small back and muttered, “We’ll be safe soon.”

She sniffed and pulled away. “That’s what the soldiers said when they were pointing their guns at us.”

“What? What soldiers?” Her eyes were lost and tinged red from crying and she was muttering more about men and guns and danger, each word coming out more frantic than the last. “No one’s pointing guns at you! You’re taking this too far, Anya!”

She was panicking now. “What if I really am her—”

He shushed her frantically, holding her gaze. “We’re almost out of Russia. Once we cross the border, we’re safe.” He was holding her shoulders and speaking with a soft voice, desperate for her to listen, and she blinked out of that clouded shroud of whatever in her imagination was holding her captive. “Better?” 

She nodded slowly and he released her shoulders but she didn’t release her gaze. “Who do you think I am, Dmitry?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know.” 

No, he’d never be able to lie to her, no matter how much the situation called for it.

She shook her head, as if brushing away a silly notion. “You put these ideas in my head. I’m beginning to think they might be true.”

Before he could attempt to decipher what that meant Vlad broke through the door of their compartment, holding up a wanted poster with all three of their faces. Could this night get any longer?

Apparently it could. With a troublingly calm demeanor she opened the window and declared she was getting off. 

“Wait, hold on— the train’s already moving again!”

But she continued and clung onto the railing of the car, not looking back. Dmitry could’ve scoffed and said he’d rather die by the Bolshevik’s bullets instead of the gruesome and definite death they’d face between the iron of the railroad and the wheels of the train. But his body was working on autopilot, following her against his will. 

And then they jumped. 

To his delight they did _not_ die, but he swore for a solid minute, first out of pure fear and then in laughter when none of them were injured on the way down. That was by far the _stupidest_ move he’d ever pulled but he’d never felt life buzz through his limbs like this before. And when Anya glanced up at him, the same thrill in her eyes, that same buzz nearly stopped his heart. He had no idea why he followed her off that train. Or why he continued to follow her through the snow in the dark. But he did, without a second thought at this point, and he knew he’d continue to follow her the rest of the way. Maybe he’d been looking for someone to follow instead of letting his own heart guide the way.

Maybe deep down he knew, whether she was aware of it or not, she was saving him. 

* * *

“Why have we stopped?” Anya huffed with that air of indignant annoyance Dmitry had come to adore. Sometimes she reminded him of that proud girl he saw at a parade once, especially when she managed to look down her nose at him in spite of her small size. “I’m going to ask the driver what’s wrong.”

The exhaustion of their escape had started to set in, making his feet ache and his eyelids hang heavy, but he wasn’t hindered by the lack of energy yet. He could’ve swam across the Atlantic with this much adrenaline swimming in his blood. Now, as they were on the cusp of the gates of Paris, he felt lighter with every step into new territory. His eyes followed Anya the whole way, watching her charm the driver with a lively conversation.

“Look at her, rattling off in French with him,” he said absent-mindedly with a fond smile and a laugh. He found Vlad’s shoulder without looking away. “Don’t be surprised if we get away with this, Vlad.”

A beat passed and Dmitry wondered why his friend didn’t return his enthusiasm like he expected. “She’ll break your heart, Dmitry.”

The roof of his mouth dried up. Studying a blade of green grass poking the toe of his boot, jaw clenching and unclenching, he recovered enough to shrug off the comment. “Oh, be quiet. What do you know about anything?” It wasn’t as if Vlad knew what was in his heart. No one did. 

“If they accept her as Anastasia,” Vlad continued, tone serious and firm, “you’ll never see her again.”

He swallowed. Of course he’d thought of that— it was his plan! That was the whole point! They all would get what they want and they’d part ways amicably, free to live the lives they were meant to live. He stepped away, trying to distance himself from Vlad and the thought of Anya leaving his life and the thought of that actually mattering to him. “As usual, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Vlad raised an eyebrow and shook his head in fatherly disappointment that he wasn’t heeding his warning. Anya returned in giddy excitement and Vlad whooped with joy. 

“We made it!” Dmitry grinned. Before he could follow his friend up the hill he heard his name, and he turned to listen. 

She seemed to be a little at a loss for words, the sunset leaving a golden halo in her hair. “Even when I was mad at you,” she started, “I never doubted we would. Thank you, Dmitry.”

He blinked, lips parted. Her eyes were holding him again, too bright and genuine for him not to be blinded, but he couldn’t look away, letting himself be burned. He never wanted to look away. All at once, realization crashed onto his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs, and every moment leading up to this point flashed through his mind. Every touch, every lingering glance, every fleeting thought aimed at her could only mean one thing. And then he was thinking about what Vlad said and how he couldn’t fathom life moving forward without her, or how if she were just two steps closer he probably would’ve kissed her, and then— 

Oh no.

He realized he’d been staring and the silence was too long. “Uh…” _Say something._ “Thank Vlad.”

She smiled quietly, like she knew he couldn’t handle gratitude very well. He definitely wasn’t hiding his internal commotion at all, and thankfully Vlad called for them to come look before she could call him out on it, giving him an escape. 

But there was no running away from the fact that he’d fallen in love with her. 

Ugh. He couldn’t stomach the embarrassment. Now wasn’t the time to think about it. Or to be selfish and wish their plan would fail, or to suggest they forget the whole thing altogether. Or to act on it. He thought back to when Vlad had said he was in love with Lily and wanted to ask how he knew. But he kept his mouth quiet, already knowing the answer regardless of what led him to this realization. It didn’t matter now.

Still, even as he was looking over the city, all he could think about was how excited he was to see Anya’s reaction to the view.

Oh no.

* * *

Paris, by far, wasn’t too bad. 

It still felt more like a vacation destination than a home. Dmitry wasn’t complaining, though, happy with his new lavender bath soaps and a crisp new suit. For once in his life no one was chasing after him for crimes he never wanted to commit. That tended to relax a person. 

Anya was thriving here— she was born to be a Parisian instead of an old, bitter, freezing Russian like himself. She’d bloomed like the sunset-pink flowers that’d greeted them when they first arrived, leading them to every tourist attraction imaginable with giddy smiles and happy giggles. Paris looked good on her. Happiness looked good on her.

He loved her. He’d be stupid to continue denying that fact now. At first he wondered if it was just a fleeting infatuation, or the comfort of friendship, but he didn’t think he’d ever felt this way about any of the girls he’d had romantic entanglements with in the past. And he definitely never felt this way about Vlad. So, yes, he was in capital-L-Love with Anya, much to his dismay. And he couldn’t hide from it. He could, however, keep trying to ignore the way his eyes involuntarily followed her everywhere, or how he smiled every time their hands brushed while they walked, or how he couldn’t help gravitating closer to her, or how he’d blush when she’d say his name and offer a piece of whatever pastry she just bought. They’d only been in Paris for a few days but he was already comfortable in the fact that she was becoming one of his favorite people.

“Well?”

He snapped out of his thoughts and realized he’d been staring again. God, this was painful. Then he realized she was asking what he thought of her new dress and he almost couldn’t handle it. This one was pink and delicate, and she’d started wearing her hair up in fashionable updos, revealing the skin on her neck and collarbone, and, well. The French loved to show off their legs, and she embraced every one of these trends, making his mouth dry. Obviously he wasn’t complaining. Where was he going with this? Oh, right. He cleared his throat. “Not bad,” he tried, but his voice was too high-pitched to be convincing.

Ignoring his feelings wasn’t working.

Perhaps he needed a new strategy. After all, there was still a small chance the plan would fall through. Maybe then he’d get the chance to finally gather up the courage to ask her to dance. Which, in the past, he normally wouldn’t have struggled with, since his strength lied in his ability to be persuasive and charming. But lately he was a stuttering, blushing, bumbling _mess_ who could barely string two words together in a cohesive sentence around her. 

He still couldn’t figure out what it all meant. In his experience, love was nothing but anguish and pain. It didn’t save his father or keep his mother from disappearing. It didn’t serve his country— nor did it keep him from leaving. At least, that’s what he’d believed his whole life. But now he wasn’t so sure. How could the yellow light in his chest be wrong? How could he _not_ love her? The longer he was aware of it the more it grew— the more the simple fact of loving Anya wove itself into the fabric of his being. He just… didn’t know what to do about it. So for now, at least, perhaps he could do his best to just enjoy whatever time he had left with her. Some friendly flirting never hurt anyone.

They’d only been in Paris for a few days now, exploring and shopping and eating. Tonight Vlad finally decided it was time for him to search for Lily so he ducked out early, leaving Dmitry and Anya to wander in the night. He wasn’t complaining. 

They stopped on a bridge overlooking the Seine— her grandfather’s bridge, apparently, if they played their cards right. She leaned against the railing to watch the sunset with a beaming smile and he was reminded of that night he brought her to his favorite bridge in Petersburg. For a moment the ache in his chest for something familiar took him aback. 

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, poking the spot between his eyebrows. “You’ve got a thought stuck on your forehead.” 

Vlad was right. She broke his heart every time she looked at him. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. Her eyes were burning, waiting. He leaned his elbows against the railing, staring out into the water instead. “Do you feel… home?”

There was a pause as she considered his question. “I don’t think I even know what home is.” Her words hung in the air for a moment. “But I think I will. Feel at home here, I mean. I love it.”

He smiled fondly to himself. “I know you do.”

“What about you?”

He met her eyes again. Every time she showed genuine interest in his life, his thoughts, his input, always surprised him. “It’s not Russian enough for me.”

Her laugh broke the tension and he smiled. “You know what I mean, though. Do you see yourself settling here? Buying a nice apartment with your reward money?”

He actually hadn’t considered _what_ he’d do with the reward. Obviously he’d finally be free of worries about starving or staying warm, but he wasn’t sure what would happen after that. “I don’t know.” Would he find a job? Would he travel? Would he never work again? That last bit sounded miserable. He’d spent a huge part of his life in solitude, and for once he wasn’t ready to go back to that. He thought about the last place he could call home. How it cradled the memories of his father. “It depends on who I’m with.”

“So home is who you love, then?”

He swallowed. “Yes,” he breathed. If she were anyone else, if he loved her any less, this would be his moment. _Just say it!_ His heart screamed. “I think it’s time for me to turn in,” he said instead. Slowly he backed away from the railing and grinned, “A first-class bubble bath is calling my name.”

She laughed again, accepting his goodnight. “That’s hard to ignore.”

“You ready to head back?”

“Not yet, I’m…” she looked out into the water again, and then back at him. “I want to stay and think for a little bit.”

He nodded, understanding. If they were still in Petersburg her being out this late on her own wouldn’t have even been an option. Not having to worry about that would take some getting used to. “Be safe, then.”

* * *

“Who do you think I am, Dmitry?”

The question hung heavy in the dark, erasing any sleepiness in his eyelids. When he’d heard her screaming from the next room he didn’t even think of it— all he could do was make his legs move fast enough to get to her, to comfort and hold her until she woke from yet another nightmare.

Dmitry swallowed, choosing his words carefully. Now more than ever, he couldn’t lie to her, no matter what she needed to hear. “If… if I were the dowager empress, I’d want you to be her.”

“You would?” 

Anya looked at him like he was giving her a lifeline to cling onto. So impossibly vulnerable. So hungry for belonging. “I’d want her to be a beautiful, strong, and intelligent young woman.”

“Is that who you think I am?”

“I do.”

Then he realized he’d let those words slip past the filter before he batted an eye, and those blue eyes were terribly close and her hand was warm in his and his other hand was holding her waist and it felt so _right_ it terrified him. She must’ve realized the same because her cheeks flushed and they both scooted to opposite sides of the bed. “Thank you,” she muttered. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d pay me a compliment.”

He snorted a laugh— he definitely hadn’t been easy on her. But he sobered quickly, the moment too fragile.

“Do you really think I might be her?”

He swallowed again. “I… _want_ to believe you’re the little girl I saw all those years ago.”

She perked up at that. How did she manage to pull so many memories and stories from him, stories he held close to his chest, stories he’d never told to another soul? Maybe, because he knew she was frustrated with her own lack of memories, he knew she understood the value of having good ones now and then. She could be trusted with this gift. 

So he told her what he’d never told anyone— not even his father. How enchanted he was by this proud girl. For the first time in years he lost himself in this memory, one of the few happy ones in his life, and couldn’t believe he was actually sharing something so precious with her. But she listened, the way she listened back along the Neva, and even joined in, pretending this was her own memory as it was his, as if she were actually the girl who smiled at him in the parade and laughed when he ran to follow her. Now she was smiling and teasing, such a stark contrast to the state he’d found her earlier.

Until she stood. The speed of her words picked up, and she was pacing back and forth, and at first he thought she was still playing along but there was an urgency in her voice. And then she mentioned a detail he’d purposely left out.

“He bowed.” 

“Wait—” he shot to his feet. That small moment was the reason he’d never told anyone this story before— he’d never bow to anyone again. “I didn’t tell you that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she met his gaze again in the dark, tears welling, eyes wide, and he was shaking his head before she continued, “I remember.”

She could’ve been saying _oh no,_ her tone was just as somber. A lament. 

It was true then. It explained her amnesia, the way she’d drift off and mutter something peculiar about guns or ghosts, the nightmares, the chillingly-imperial blue of her eyes. But it was also true that it really was her he’d seen when he was still a boy, how he still felt like that same boy only when he was around Anya. He’d found her. 

He found her!

So he did what he wished he could’ve done on that hot summer day: he ran. And she ran too. She was grinning now in disbelief and he mirrored her, amazed she was _here_ and he could hold her and she was holding him, he could barely contain himself.

“Hello,” she murmured, the word so small in a moment so big he almost laughed.

“Hi,” he whispered back, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. 

She reached up to brush her fingers over his cheek, the touch jolting him down to his toes and his eyes fluttered shut for a second. When was the last time someone was this gentle with him? She was so _close._ One of his hands rose to cup her cheek carefully, so soft in case she vanished again, and the other slid down her arm, hoping she felt the wild joy and tenderness he kept locked away in his heart only for her. When she didn’t pull away and instead rested her hands on his chest, he swallowed, that strange magnetic or gravitational pull making his head bow forward, so slow and close he could feel her breath on his cheek and count every individual freckle scattered over her nose. She wanted it just as much as he did, he realized. To be loved. 

Wait. 

She was a Romanov. If her family was still alive, they would’ve never met. He wouldn’t be here, holding her. Tomorrow she was supposed to return to the little bit of family she had left. Tomorrow he had to give her up. He couldn’t get in the middle of the one thing she’d been looking for her whole life.

She was Anya, the bravest, most selfless person he’d ever been privileged to know, and he was an orphan street rat, and he’d be disgustingly selfish to ask her to love him back. 

So he pulled away. 

He couldn’t look at her expression so he stared down at his own feet instead. Swallowing another hard lump in his throat, he muttered, “Your highness.” There. The wall was built up again. Impenetrable. The only way through was by meeting her eyes and falling hard all over again. Now she could move on, and he’d just be another memory, another boy she passed by, and she could finally realize she deserved so much more than he or anyone here could offer.

So he kneeled and bowed his head for the second time in his life, not to Anastasia, but to Anya.

He couldn’t look at her. But if he did, he would’ve seen those eyes more confused, disappointed, and lost than ever before. 

He didn’t deserve her, anyway. Conmen didn’t deserve anything.

* * *

  
“Vlad!” Dmitry finally found his friend in the crowded lobby of the opera house. “I need to talk to you. Anya, she’s really—”

“Look at you!” Vlad beamed and patted his shoulder. “All cleaned up. Perhaps this is the closest we’ve been to gentlemen. You’ve got something here, though.” He rubbed his thumb on a spot of Dmitry’s cheek and Dmitry swatted him away with childish impatience.

“Listen, Vlad—”

“Where did Lily go?” Vlad whipped his head around in search of their ticket to the dowager. 

“It’s Anya, last night she said something about—”

“She was just here. I’ll go look for her.”

“Wait— listen—”

“Fix your shoe!” Vlad pointed down at his feet and sure enough there was a scuff mark already. When Dmitry looked back up he was already gone. Oh well. He guessed nothing had really changed, anyway, other than his own heart. The stakes were higher now. Anya _had_ to return to her family, and he’d give everything in himself to bring her there, even if it meant he’d never see her again. 

All of this circled in his mind as he knelt and brushed away the scuff on his new shoe. Leave it to Dmitry to somehow mess up a tuxedo only an hour after putting it on. 

A hem of a dress caught his attention. Nothing but a dazzling and endless sea of blue, the same shade of blue he’d dreamed of, the same in the eyes he finally found, his neck craning to look up at the heavens. Anya was calm, collected, unlike the wild somersaulting in his chest. Her small, satisfied smile slowly spread into a beaming unbridled grin. Like she was overjoyed to see him. 

God, he was ruined.

The stars he’d grew up loving couldn’t compare. They were just dim specks in the brilliance of her presence, and he knew from that point on she’d always be his sun, the star he’d choose to orbit. 

Wow. He was devolving into _such_ a sap. 

Dmitry shook his head to gather his wits and scrambled to his feet. Remembering some gentlemanly manners, he held out his arm, playing the part of the suitor. If only it were real. She held him close, smiling up all the way, and he couldn’t contain his grin, feeling proud to have the honor of her presence by his side. If he couldn’t love her, the least he could do was be the tether she needed. For a moment he could pretend this was just an ordinary night and they were just an ordinary pair. That this wasn’t just a dream he’d wake from in a few hours.

He held her hand through the entire ballet, wishing he could be selfish just one more time and kiss her. She clung onto him like he was a lifeline in a stormy sea. And when it was time to meet the dowager he still held her hand every step of the way to the private box, only releasing when she said she was ready, and he watched the train of her dress float behind her.

To love, he realized, was to let go.

* * *

Dmitry didn’t think of himself as a worrier.

But now, standing outside the Dowager’s private box, pacing back and forth, running his hands through his hair over and over again, unable to sit still, he proved himself wrong. He had no reason to panic. Anya said she was ready, and he believed she was, too, and they had nowhere to go but up. They were all safe from the Bolsheviks and relatively comfortable here in Paris, and for all he knew he was moments away from knowing what it felt like to be a rich man. He had nothing to lose! 

So why was he a nervous wreck?

Vlad stood from his spot on the little chaise in the hallway to go find some vodka to ease his nerves. Dmitry didn’t blame him but he remained. For some reason he felt if he left now he’d be abandoning her, even though she was on the other side of the door and he was of no help at this point. 

And then it clicked. 

No matter what way this played out, whether they were successful or not, he’d still lose one thing. 

And he finally realized he probably wouldn’t survive that. 

As if appearing from his own manifestation, Anya had emerged from the private box, her expression unreadable. “Well?” he asked, the suspense unbearable, “what happened?”

“She wouldn’t even look at me,” Anya muttered, just like she wasn’t looking at him now. His heart snapped. “She said… she called me an impostor. That I only want money and would break an old woman’s heart to get it.”

He met her where she stood, intending to hold her hand. “I’ll— I’ll go tell her the truth—”

She snatched her hand away from him, as if his touch burned. “That I was a pawn in this scheme of yours?” 

Oh no. She was looking at him now, the warmth in her eyes iced over in imperial blue, cold and commanding, and oh so _angry._ Under that gaze he was speechless for a second. “I—”

“Letting me believe I was someone else, or ever could be?” Her voice rose with each word.

He shook his head. “No—”

“I was cold and hungry and _desperate_ when I met you, Dmitry, but I wasn’t dishonest.” She shook her head, face contorting in disgust and hurt and pain. All because of him. “You took advantage of me when I needed you most, and now she thinks I’m the same heartless liar as you.”

He had to look away then. A few months ago, maybe he would’ve pushed back. Defended himself. Tried to fix it. But now he knew she was only speaking the truth. What he’d known about himself for a long time now. What he’d hated. And now she saw it all.

Until she muttered, “And I hate you for that.”

His head snapped up, catching a final glimpse of her smoldering eyes, and watching the train of her dress flutter behind her as she stormed away out of his reach. 

Before he could recover or process he heard the sound of Lily’s voice. If he didn’t deserve to love her, the least he could do was make things right, no matter the cost. 

No excuses. No explanations. No charms or wit or anything he prided himself in could save him. 

But he might’ve had a chance to save Anya. 

So he whirled around directly into the Dowager Empress herself, saying things that could’ve easily landed him in the lineup for execution if she still held authority. For the first time in his life he _begged,_ he claimed responsibility for his mistake, he took himself out of the picture completely and only asked her to listen on behalf of the girl he loved, the girl who’d faced nothing but pain and suffering since the slaughter and only asked for one thing in return. He even stomped on the hem of her dress with his stupid scuffed shoe, and when she turned to face him he stood his ground. It wasn’t like he hadn’t faced the same stare of certain death before. 

“Just go _look_ at her, you have no idea what it took for her to see you!” he pressed on carefully. “Anya survived for a reason: to heal what happened.” One thing was for sure— Anya had healed the bitterness within his own heart, saving him with the grace of closure. Surely this old woman needed that too. “If you turn her away, Russia will be a wound that never healed!”

There was a slap across his face and he froze in shock. “That’s no longer a concern of mine! Russia has damned itself to eternity for what it has done.”

He rubbed his cheek and stepped away. Fine. Stubbornness ran in the family, he guessed. “God will judge you harshly, old woman. History already has.”

He stormed off before she could sic security on him, hating himself even more now that he burned every possible bridge.

Except he didn’t. Back at the hotel, Anya still fuming behind him as she packed and he stared dejectedly, he opened the door to meet the Dowager once again. He masked his shock quickly by stepping aside to let her in, closing the door behind him. Vlad decided to wait at the hotel bar but Dmitry stepped outside to light a cigarette. He hated not knowing how things would turn out. He hated the dark.

“You alright, son?” Vlad’s voice came from behind him, then rested a hand on his shoulder. When he took a long drag instead of responding Vlad continued, “I… I’m sorry about how this all played out. But now that she’s finally getting an audience with her majesty we have hope!” 

“I know.” Dmitry sighed and watched a car rumble past on the cobblestone street. “It’s not about that now, though. It’s not about us.”

A long, sympathetic pause. “Is this about what Anya said earlier? You know she didn’t mean it—”

“She did.” Dmitry spat with a bitter laugh. Anya wasn’t a cruel person, but she wasn’t a liar, either. She knew how to use her words to cut into the worst parts of him. “Look… She really is her. I don’t— I can’t explain it, but she’s really Anastasia.” He met Vlad’s eyes, heavy with solemnity. “So whatever’s happening up there, it’s— it’s not about the money. It’s about getting her home.”

“Well.” Vlad was silent for another moment. “This should be celebrated, then. We found her after all.” 

Dmitry shook his head. 

“I tried to warn you—”

“I know!” Dmitry shrugged off the hand on his shoulder. “I know what you said.”

“But maybe it’s a good thing? Think of this as your chance to start fresh again.”

Dmitry shook his head, smiling bitterly. “I’m not taking the money.”

“What?” Vlad grabbed his shoulder. “What do you mean?” 

“It’s not about that anymore.” Dmitry repeated. 

“But this is the chance you wanted!”

“I know.” He swallowed. “But it’s not how I wanted to earn it.”

The millionth heavy silence of the night. “Well, at least you’re here.”

Dmitry winced. “I… can’t stay here, either.”

He waited for Vlad to argue, to convince him he was making a mistake, but he only swallowed thickly and muttered, “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced back up at the hotel, the window to their room. “Somewhere new and affordable.”

“It’s…” Vlad cleared his throat. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“No,” Dmitry shook his head, “no goodbyes.”

Vlad held out his hand anyway. Dmitry took it, surprisingly emotional about the prospect of not staying with his friend for much longer. “I hope you write, regardless.”

“I will.”

Vlad paused again before walking back into the hotel lobby. “You’d better say your goodbyes to her now, though. It’s probably your last chance.”

Dmitry’s breath hitched. The thought of facing her again, knowing she saw him for the lowlife he was, he wasn’t sure he could do it. But… What if, after all of this, the Dowager still refused to change history? What if Anya was left alone again?

Their conversation had been going on for quite some time now. At least, as far as he was aware. Maybe the Dowager had already slipped out, leaving Anya without a family once again, feeling unloved.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He stomped out his cigarette and ran through the lobby. He didn’t plan on interrupting whatever was going on upstairs or begging for forgiveness, but he needed to tell Anya she was loved, no matter who rejected her, then he could leave in peace. _I don’t know if this matters, but someone loves you. I love you enough to stay or walk out of this room if you tell me to._

But Dmitry didn’t need to. When he quietly opened the door he saw the two of them sitting on the cushioned bench in the common room, sharing an embrace, Anya’s tear-stained cheeks turned into a beaming, comforted smile.

That was his closure. His job was done. 

And it was worth more than any millions of rubles the Dowager could ever give him.

* * *

He didn’t know why he ended up at the bridge. 

Well, Dmitry did suggest celebrating here after their success. He wasn’t sure why he thought she’d want to keep her word on that, since… well. She was happy with her family now, so there was no room left in her life for him. But on his way to the train station he wandered to the Pont Alexandre again against his will. Too many memories. He’d be glad to have this city behind him soon.

But as he was sitting on his suitcase and stewing, it was like she appeared straight from a dream, in a glittering red gown as fiery and angry as her eyes when he last saw her. Just out of reach. He almost laughed at how this was the most like _Anastasia_ she looked since he’d known her, yet he still couldn’t seem to forget the orphaned street sweeper who derailed his entire life. She was even wearing an ornate golden tiara. Just to rub it in.

Anya seemed breathless, like she’d just sprinted the whole way here, and it took him a minute to find his words. He hated goodbyes, and this was the cruelest one of all. He decided to start with a joke. “If you ever see me from a carriage again, don’t wave.” 

She didn’t laugh. Just… stared.

He lost his will to hold any more secrets from her. “I can’t be in love with someone I can’t have for the rest of my life.” He met her eyes then, surprised by his own honesty, and stood, giving her one last ironic bow on his way down to pick up his suitcase. “So goodbye, your majesty.”

He made it two steps before she finally spoke. “I always dreamed my first kiss would be in Paris, with a handsome prince.”

That made him stop. And turn to face her again. “I’m not your prince,” and, because he was probably the last person who still saw the girl who walked across half of Russia and straight into his heart, he addressed, “Anya.”

A smile peaked on her face and she shook her head. “The Grand Duchess, Anastasia Romanov,” she marched forward with each word until she was inches away from him, “would beg to disagree.” And then she yanked his suitcase from his hand and stomped on top of it until she was standing nearly at his eye level. No escaping from those eyes now. Her smile widened, “Dima.”

Before he could even inhale she grabbed his face and pulled him down for a kiss. 

His hands flailed for a second in surprise. But she still held him close, and it probably took too long for him to process it all, and frankly, could anyone blame him? Finally the rush of realizing Anya was _kissing him_ and all he had to do was hold her the way he’d wanted for so long instead of stiffening like an idiot spurred him ahead. His hands wrapped around her back, holding tight, and he let the words pour through his lips to express how he felt. What he’d held in after all this time. 

Dmitry wasn’t a poet. But the sonnets rising from his chest to meet her lips put Pushkin to shame. 

She was grinning against his mouth and he smiled too, blinking to see those blue eyes, and, god, he loved her so much. He loved her enough he thought he could fly into the air right then. Her thumb playfully caressed his cheek before landing in that stupid dimple he always hated— but would consider not hating so much, since she seemed fond of it. He tilted his chin so he could press a kiss to her palm.

“Where are you going?” she asked, breathless, her fingers brushing over his lips.

He bumped his nose against hers. “Wherever you want.”

She smiled, but he knew her eyes by now. The gears were turning in her head. “Wanna get out of here?”

His smile widened, and then he scooped her up, too overwhelmed with joy, and set her on the ground. He held his arm out for her to hold, standing straight and tall with purpose because he finally had something to be proud of. “Lead the way.”

He could look down at those eyes all day. It was a gaze he knew so well, and she saw all of him, and somehow still gave him the time of day. Maybe to love was to know, too.

She tugged his arm close, pulling him through the busy street. She didn’t have to. He’d follow her until his dying day. 


End file.
